


Running For Home

by JauntyHako



Series: Moving On [2]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: It's just one thing after another with this guy, Loneliness, M/M, Ulysses can't catch a break, backstory exploration, brief racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JauntyHako/pseuds/JauntyHako
Summary: Ulysses leaves home and finds he cannot return.
Relationships: Courier/Ulysses (Fallout), Male Courier/Ulysses (implied)
Series: Moving On [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158479
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Running For Home

**Author's Note:**

> You know that meme where people pretend that Ulysses is incomprehensible? It turned from a pet peeve into a headcanon into a fic. Inspiration comes from weird places sometimes.

"Wednesday!"

The young man who is not yet Ulysses startles. Turns around, sees his mother in the doorway. Framed by golden light spilling out of the house, proud and regal with her braids piled on her head like a crown. Metal rings and spirals glint, triumph in light meeting iron. 

Last memory he has of her, until Vulpes' smiling betrayal. Wishes he'd looked closer then. Won't remember what she wore - the shawl his other mother made for her, after his father died, maybe - won't know if she was smiling or exasperated.

But at sixteen, he is not thinking about a future in which she will not be there. He is still Wednesday, running back to the house to pick up the saguaro fruits she holds out to him. Spent all day collecting them in anticipation for tonight, then nearly forgot. 

His mother keeps him there for a moment, her hands warm around his. Kisses him on the cheek, laughs when he tries to duck away.

"Children. One day they sleep in your lap, the next you're embarrassing them with your love."

Shakes her head, fond laughter turning into a mild smile when Wednesday straightens up, gently touches his forehead against hers.

"Never," he says. "Proud to be your son."

She sighs, calls him sweetheart. It was a sad thing then, he will know years later. Touched by his affection, but worried since it's not how a boy his age should behave. She is only joking in that moment, he takes it too seriously. Worried he has hurt her with this gesture, offended that she would ever think he does not love her with all that his heart can give.

"Go on, then. Your friends are waiting for you."

Waiting, maybe. Friends? He has no friends in the tribe. Sees it when he approaches the fire, the young gathering to share stories, games. Drink. They spot him, none make space between them. He is forced to sit just a little behind two of the others, not quite fitting in the gap between them. 

Passes out the saguaro fruit, acknowledged for his gift, then immediately forgotten about. Around him the conversation turns to the Legion, like it does these days.

"It's such bullshit that women don't get to join," says the girl immediately to his right. Monday the Younger, whose older sister died last year falling into a ravine. 

She'd be too young to join anyway, even had she been a man. But she is supported by the other women in the circle, most of them older and perfectly aware of what the Legion's rejection does for their standing in that tribe as well as their own. 

"They're scared we'll take over if they let us in," says another. Thursday, with pearls in her hair. 

She found them on a scavenging run, earned a metal ring for her braids when she killed a super mutant defending its territory. Got first pick of the loot, chose the pearls. No use, but she wears them with more pride than the ring. 

Wednesday, Ulysses to be, joins in the conversation.

"Bull looks backwards, finds strength there. Will hear our ways if we speak."

The conversation stops dead around him. Some look at him, others avoid eye contact. Guided by hot embarrassment his eyes land on Monday the Younger rolling her eyes at one of her friends. 

"Okay ..." 

Always ends up like this. Can't help himself, whether in the urge to speak nor in the ability to express himself. He ducks his head, withdraws from the group.

Friday, one of the young men his age, who will join the Legion soon, causes strained laughter with his response. He nudges the woman to his right, makes a gesture Wednesday can't interpret. Sometimes it's like they speak another language entirely. 

Whispers spread from one mouth to the next. He knows the tune well. 

"He's always so weird."

"Like, why can't he just say what he means?"

"It's like he never blinks. Creepy."

Doesn't speak again that night, although he doesn't leave, like he usually does. Tonight he waits, reason why he came to the fireside meeting. Takes an hour of waiting, sitting on the sidelines biting his tongue everytime he feels the urge to speak up. Has wisdom to offer, result of always being on the outside looking in. No one wants to hear it. Decipher the meaning that sounds so clear in his head but arrives garbled and incomprehensible in others' ears. 

Waiting pays off. Loud cheers welcome the appearance of the last member of their little round. Sunday, with a braid full of rings and two spirals. One of them is new, and he's immediately fawned on when he shows it off. Answers the questions the others have, basks in their admiration. Elder women gave it to him, just now before he came to them. For brokering peace with another tribe.

Past the Bull's reach, one of the few places left. But important to the Twisted Hairs, to be on good terms with their neighbours. Sunday made it happen. Seems to be able to do anything, laughs freely, shares his rewards. Fruit, meat, and a full handful of gemstones. Tells his friends to pass them around, let each have one. They love him for it, toast his health and his continued generosity. Some end up with two or more small stones. Wednesday is overlooked. He does not call attention to himself.

Someone provides wire, tools. Within minutes most gems are glittering and shining in black and red braids. Monday the Younger preens when two boys admire her but her eyes keep darting towards Thursday. Wednesday knows that the beads, one black and yellow, the other plain wood connected by a stone painted white, is meant for her with the pearls in her hair. Monday hasn't told anyone, but Wednesday knows. Little of his own to distract him. Sees how she tries to catch Thursday's attention. Wonders if he looks the same, to anyone paying attention. 

No one does. As Sunday regales the group with his adventure all eyes are on him, including Wednesday's. Glued to the man's full lips, the locs swaying with every wild gesture he makes. Sunday is an animated storyteller, mimicking allies, enemies, even animals and environment. He's radiant, strong. Beautiful like a sunrise, like clear tracks on a cool morning, like the Legion's armies marching towards the future.

Vulpes Inculta has shown Sunday special interest. Wanted to recruit him, make him his own personal successor. Sunday refused. Elevates him in the tribe's esteem, for being offered such an honour and rejecting it. The elder women especially like him better for it. They keep complaining that all the men are going off to war with the Legion rather than staying at home contributing to the welfare of the Twisted Hairs.

Group disperses eventually. Sunday stays behind, pokes the fire, lost in thought. Another quality which Wednesday admires. Can hold attention, thrives among people, but knows how to look inward, too. 

Doesn't notice at first that Wednesday has stayed behind, too. Tries for something like a smile when he does.

"Still up?"

Friendly question. Puts him at ease, makes him feel less like an outsider among his own people. Sunday's the only person except his mother who will initiate conversation with him. Not often, but he thrives on every casual greeting, builds his affection out of every smile and word thrown his way. 

"Need to speak to you. Important, to me."

Sunday looks around. To see if they're alone. Private. 

"Alright."

Wednesday clutches his cloak, the one he embroidered himself (has lost, a long time ago, before Hoover Dam), as he works up the courage to speak his mind. Heart races. Has to get this right. If not, no future in the tribe. 

"See a connection between us. Look at you sometimes, think maybe you see it, too. Was wondering if ... " 

He holds out his hand, presents a black and yellow bead, painted on bone from the last kill he made hunting with his mother. Sunday's hand reaches out before he realises what it is. When he does, it sinks. So does Wednesday's heart. 

"Could stay together, tonight. Old Watchtower's empty."

A feeble attempt, one last ditch effort to get to where he needs to be. Sunday watches him from across a chasm broader than he can bridge.

"Shit. Look, this isn't ... I'm sure you're great. But there's just not ... I mean, you can be kind of intense, and anyway, I'm interested in someone else. You ... uh, you're gonna be okay?"

Remembers that. Even decades later. Remembers Sunday asking if he is 'okay'. Then he wasn't. Didn't think he'd ever be okay again. Doesn't remember what happens after. Must have gone home alone. Seen his mother in the morning, when he said his goodbyes. Doesn't remember that. Only her silhouette the night before, and older memories all mixing together. 

Mixing with years of having only her and the old women for company. Of being spoken about behind his back, misunderstood, not listened to in the first place. Wednesday children are bad luck. Whose bad luck, he wondered then. Doesn't wonder anymore.

Every word he said that night at the campfire he remembers. Every sideways glance, every muffled laughter. But not what his mother said when he told her he was going to join the Legion. Not if she hugged him goodbye or if he stole out of the house at sunrise, turning his back on his home over a broken heart. Running, ever since, to find another one.

Stops being Wednesday that night, although he doesn't know it then. Thinks of himself by that name for years after. Wednesday, Frumentarius of the Legion. Proud of it, title and name. Hair grows long, locks it up, takes less time to care for. No one around to braid his hair for him. 

Thirteen years he wanders for the Legion, delivers its message like Graham did with the first tribe that saw the Legion's banner. Thirteen years he thinks of himself as Frumentarius first, Wednesday second. That's when he discovers someone walks beside him. Hard to see at first, sand and wind blind him. 

Takes a storm to drive him into hiding, on top a sheltered outcropping. High ground, protected from the violence raking the skies. Someone's been here before. Phantom moving, he follows it around. To the ashes of a fire that burned, ground wet where water was spilled, smell of blood in the air. Smell and sight of someone treating an injury. Sand disturbed farther in, where a bedroll must have been. 

Watches another like him go through the motions of setting up camp as he takes advantage of what's been left behind. Legion? Strange, they're supposed to take different routes. Could be the other one got lost, had to make a detour. Maybe someone else altogether.

Desert Rangers he learns later. Still a tribe then, independent, proud. Become soldiers, drones when they meet the NCR. Then, that first meeting between couriers, the man who will become Ulysses is the only one shackled to a greater beast. Doesn't think of it that way, then. Thinks of another tribe to be absorbed into Caesar's ranks. 

Next town he arrives, he finds out that phantom in the cave is a courier. Delivers life, hope, sometimes death. People speak gladly of the man and he finds himself listening more intently than he has been ordered to. Admiration in there, beyond the duty to know one's enemy. Could be he's not the only one having found this strange tribe and this courier. Could be he's met one of Caesar's after all or one who had the potential to be.

They walk similar roads. Not the same, sometimes months, years even, go by before his feet fall into familiar footsteps. But for close to fourteen years the other courier is his friend. Every story he hears, the man becomes more like a legend, someone to look up to, someone to admire. Follows the stories.

Finds a .50 shell casing, like the one he's started to use but not fired by him, and attaches it to a black and yellow bead, weaves it into his hair. A plain brown bead underneath, for a potential, a could be, a maybe. 

As years go by he starts attaching small metal rings to the braid that carries the courier's beads. Not his own victories. Worthy of celebration, still. Etches coordinates into each ring, remembers the stories by the numbers he gives them. Better than his own. More than his own, and he is equal parts jealous and awed.

Nothing to be done about this affection he carries, nor does he want to. Won't sully this relationship with something as meaningless as attraction. Bond between them, something profound. Something that keeps him going through Dry Wells.

Feet lose contact with the ground as his people are hoisted up on their crosses. Some cry out, for Ulysses and those like him. Listens to their moans, a prayer for death, the Legion's and their own. He is lost in that Great Distance, water closing over his head. At Dry Wells lie the bodies of those who leapt with crazy laughter into the Legion's waiting arms. Bayonets to slash, shears to carve the skin from their heads. Finds hair, covered in dust, trod upon by the Legion's feet. 

Sunday hangs on one of those crosses. Recognises him, although his eyes are swollen shut, festering with the bites of hungry flies. Calls out, maybe his name, maybe a plea. His hands hover over his gun. Down the road a patrol of Legion soldiers walks. Forbidden to release the tormented at the cross. Legion wants them to suffer. Not a punishment meant for a quick death. 

Reminder who not to oppose. He looks up at Sunday, three days since he was tied to the cross, three days distance between them. His iron is cold when he walks away. He never finds his mother.

Takes a job from Vulpes, says yes, he'll let one of the slaves cut his hair on his way out. Doesn't. Forbidden to keep his hair. Breaks this rule, but it is not a revolt, not a protest. Sunday dying on the cross is proof of that.

Desert sand needs oceans, finds them by scratching at his eyes. Abandons his task, goes looking for the courier instead. Follows his footsteps and they lead him to a mighty wall and the running of clear water. 

Someone spots him coming, calls out. A group of men and women catch him when he stumbles, hits solid asphalt. Comes to, thinks he has wandered between the stars and come to rest in the shade of faraway suns. They don't know he's Legion. Don't know what the Legion is. Their world is too far away. 

They sit with him when he calls out to his dead tribe until his voice breaks. They listen to his rambling, not understanding him anymore than anyone else did, but staying regardless. Tether his feet to the ground. Bring him books while he recovers, taken from their libraries. First he's seen that's alive, nurtured like seeds in black earth.

Finds the word 'Ulysses' in one of them. One of them says it fits, story of a man trying to find his way home. Call him that when he refuses to part with any other name. He will use that story, if the Legion ever asks. Honouring the Legion's origins in the language of his name, subtle reminder that not all its soldiers are illiterate. Will keep the true meaning for himself, the one of the General fighting against slavery, until he'll find someone to share it with. 

Ulysses leaves the Divide a mosaic of shattered beads and half-formed ideas, but he leaves on his own feet. Returns, following the road the courier makes, seeks shelter here whenever the ghosts of Dry Wells try to skin him alive. 

Year after that, courier's tracks change. Become heavier, filled with sorrow. Later, much later, he will stop at Primm, spot a scrap metal statue looming in the distance. Won't care then that he has found his answer. Doesn't know the source of it then, wishes he could do something. Repayment for prior favours. When he comes upon a camp he thinks the courier will return to, he leaves gifts. Agave fruit, honey mesquite, pure water, bullets in the courier's preferred calibre. A book he just finished that will be too heavy to carry around. Thinks to sign this message of his, but doesn't know how, so leaves it the way it is. 

Starts working on his waysigns that day, with the colours he uses to paint his beads. Red for the people who do harm, blue for shelter from the ocean that cannot be wandered. White to mimic bone, plenty to spare since he does not need it. Uses symbols to mark his way everywhere he dares to. Legion discovers it was him, they'll take more than his paints and beads. Don't appreciate their Frumentarii leaving trails. Even less so when they use foreign flags to do it. 

Every chance he gets he passes through the Divide. Has to start making excuses to the Legion why he uses that route, takes to wandering farther west than any of the Legion have before. Hoover Dam lies at the end of that route. NCR. New Vegas.

Dressed as one of theirs, Ulysses wanders the length and breadth of the Dam, makes maps of its paths, lists of its powers. Wears the skin of the Bear like Vulpes wears that of the fox, and finds for Caesar a treasure shining enough to buy him respect. What he thought was respect. Before he knew better. Before Graham. 

Caesar sends him to deliver his words personally to the Malpais Legate at the camp overlooking Hoover Dam. Considers it an honour, does as he's told.

"Ulysses, was it?"

Nods, waits to be given the return message. Stops himself from rubbing warmth into his arms. Graham can turn the midday sun to night by his presence alone. Has a talent for it, making you feel small. 

"You know, there was once an American general ..." Looks at Ulysses, faint jeer on his lip. "Nevermind. You're one of the tribals, what did you call yourselves? Twisting something?"

Can't speak, chokes on blue beads, and the red ones he wants to put into his hair but can't, can't because he's still a coward and a slave, no matter what names he gives himself. The Malpais Legate does not see the rage bubbling under the surface, even though Ulysses is far past subtlety. 

"Hm, not important."

In his words Ulysses hears Sunday cursing him on the cross. 

"Look at them." Graham gestures outwards, past the camp towards Hoover Dam. "Worshipping their idols, proud of how they kill from afar. Their greed has made them reach out. They will soon learn what happens when man's reach exceeds his grasp."

"Buckle under their own weight, pockets filled with gold," Ulysses says. 

Graham looks at him with the old familiar face of a man not quite sure what to make of him. Eventually he nods.

"You're right, boy. They are the architects of their own undoing. As all wicked people are. Some may be saved. But it's not enough to simply destroy a tribe. To save the savage you must eradicate his superstitions, destroy what he calls 'culture', a pale imitation of the real thing. I will give the Legion Hoover Dam, but it will mark only the beginning of our work."

For a moment silence reigns between them. Ulysses does not speak up again. The presence of the Malpais Legate fills him with discomfort. Like seeing chains on the wall, knowing they're meant for him. Most people in the Legion fear Joshua Graham. Up until this day, Ulysses has not understood why. But, like always, his response differs from those who are ... normal. He is not afraid. He _hates_ him. 

Surprised at the strength of this conviction. Hasn't hated much throughout his life. Hasn't known what hate truly is until his tribe died in Vulpes' smile. But Joshua Graham fills him with rage, every word makes him tremble. Decides then and there that the braid promising vengeance - one red bead, one plain bone, placed into the same braid as the one mourning his tribe - is not for Vulpes alone. It's for Joshua Graham, too. Who tore roots out of brown earth and with it a history tying the Twisted Hairs to their own ancestors. 

Vulpes has betrayed his people. The Legion has crucified them. But it was Joshua Graham who has shorn off their hair. 

He glances at Ulysses, seems surprised he is still there.

"You may leave now."

Ulysses implies a salute, lowers his eyes so the need for bloodshed will not be seen. If anyone were to look. For a brief moment he plays with the thought of killing Graham right here and now. Insane idea. Even were he to succeed, he wouldn't leave the camp alive. Would take someone tougher and more reckless to march into a Legion camp to kill its leaders. He is not insane. Carries responsibility for more than his own life.

He is nearly out of the door, when Joshua Graham stops him.

"Oh and, Ulysses?"

"Yes, Legate?"

"Cut off that mess on your head, will you?"

"Yes, Legate. Ave Caesar."

Knows then that the Legion is not his home. It is a cage, and Ulysses intends to break free. Divide will be his home, his shelter. Nowhere else is as grand, nothing else but this place has made him believe a future without the Legion is possible. He will become its shepherd, clothe it in fleece, nurse it with milk. 

Chance given to him by the courier. Only chance he has if he wants to keep his braids, preserve the memory of his people. Legion won't let him keep them, alone he cannot survive. 

Smiles to himself when he thinks of the people of New Vegas, how they would say it. Puts all his chips on the Divide. 

Other nations die, but the Divide will last, long past Bear and Bull. It will last and it will be home.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so, maybe my everlasting disgust for the horrid racist dumpsterfire that was the Honest Hearts DLC is shining through a little here. One day I'll write an entire fic dealing with the whiplash I got going into that after playing through every other part of that game multiple times.
> 
> On a happier note, I continue to be the least subtle person I know in drawing for Ulysses' birth name not only from (West) African weekday naming traditions but also using the day that in Latin (and most romance languages) translates to "Day of Mercury", or day of the god of couriers.


End file.
